


The Point Of No Return.

by goghie



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 13:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18053603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goghie/pseuds/goghie
Summary: Miranda feels like this is all leading up to something. She doesn’t know what. It’s terrifying.





	The Point Of No Return.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm goghie, and relatively new to this pairing. They greatly intrigue me, and I'd like to write more about them. goghiem-rhapsody on Tumblr. Tell me what you think in the comments. I'm open to criticism.

Miranda’s sitting in her chair, listlessly flipping through the Book with her reading glasses on, not seeing the letters or the photos-- or anything else, really. Why isn’t Andrea here yet? She was supposed to be home hours ago. She stares a page, trying and failing to assess its use of color. Miranda isn’t sure how to criticize it, what she’s supposed to be doing, how she’s supposed to be feeling. This is the seventy-fifth time this has happened over these past two months. Miranda hates it more than she hated anything else, but she’s been keeping count anyways.

 

Recently Andrea’s been an hour late for evening parties, cancelling restaurant appointments last minute, or falling asleep in a chair with a Mac Book on her lap, instead of their bed. It’s empty without Andrea there, and Miranda’s sleep has been restless as of late. It all has an unbelievable kind of wrongness to it, but she’s already mourning their marriage, drowning in a cesspool of despair. The floodgates have been opened, and Miranda is powerless to try to salvage what little is left of the love Andrea once had for her. She can't gather up the strength to keep it at bay anymore.

 

Then Miranda hears the door open and close, heels clicking across the foyer, and she can’t stop her heart from leaping foolishly. “Andrea,” she calls.

 

The footsteps falter for a moment, and they pick up again. She hears a thud, which is definitely Andrea haphazardly tossing her Louboutins on the floor. The wooden staircase creaks, and Miranda knows she’s coming up now.

 

“You’re late,” Miranda says, right as Andrea walks into their bedroom. She doesn’t want to look up yet, because she’s not ready to. Her eyes are trained on the Book filled with words she isn’t reading, and illustrations she can’t make out the lines of.

 

“I’m so sorry.” Andrea says, sounding apologetic. Miranda finds that her voice is still as sweet as it always has been, and she wishes it wasn’t, because it would make being angry with Andrea so much easier. There’s a tired sigh. “Listen, Miranda, I--”

 

“Forgot about our anniversary?” It comes out so harsh that it takes even Miranda by surprise. Her jaw is so wound so tight that it might actually snap.

 

“No,” Andrea says weakly. “No, I didn’t.” That part comes out a whisper, an admission of guilt.

 

Miranda knows what’s coming next. Some pitiful excuse, like the traffic was bad, that there was a problem at the office that she needed to handle, something trivial that somehow took priority over _them._ Excuses Miranda has used before and knows like the back of her hand. She hopes Andrea proves her wrong, like she has so many times before.

 

Unfortunately, she doesn’t. “I’m so sorry,” Andrea repeats. She’s become too predictable, and it makes Miranda uneasy. She doesn’t recognize this woman as the one she married. “There was this whole crisis with Erica and Barry, they hadn’t gotten their articles done on time...” she trails off. Miranda knows this is the moment where she’s supposed to look up, reassures Andrea that it’s fine. She doesn’t. She’s clenching her pen so tightly that her hand is trembling.

 

“Andrea, I made time,” Miranda begins, and the airy cadence of her voice silences Andrea. “We both know how busy I am, but I still do my best to make time. Is it really so ludicrous that I expect you to do the same?” She’s absenting toying with the corner of a page, smoothing out a small, triangular fold.

 

Miranda and Andrea made promises to each other on their wedding day. They said that they’d always put each other before their careers, that they’d love each other until the end of time. Then they laughed, kissed, danced, and ate cake, all with the assurance that it would be easy.

 

It hadn’t been, but at least Miranda has held up her side of the deal. Andrea has not. Miranda finds it ironic that she’s been the most accommodating out of them, considering her ill reputation in the public eye. But nothing about the irony of this situation is even remotely humorous. Matching gowns of creamy silk fluttering across the sandy beaches of the Hamptons, under the warmth of the setting sun are no more than a distant memory now.

 

“I’m sorry.” It sounds like Andrea means it, but one can only say those words so many times before they lose their impact.

 

“You say that, but you should do something instead of apologizing incessantly. Perhaps start with honoring your commitments.” Miranda glances up a fraction, enough to see Andrea fidgeting with her hands. She’s wearing a beautiful pair of tailored dress pants that they’d picked out together, and Miranda can see the crisp, white button-down shirt artfully tucked into the waist. For approximately a minute or so, the only sounds that fill the house are the grandfather clock ticking away in the hall.

 

Then Andrea starts, “I’m trying to, but I--”

 

Miranda cuts her off then. She can’t bear to listen to her speak, it hurts too much, she can't think properly. “If you’re going to say that you can’t, then you’re wrong. I’ve gotten divorced three times, and been married four times. I know that it is possible, if you learn to properly prioritize things.” Miranda’s studying one page of the book as she says this, praying that her voice doesn’t betray how upset she is, or how turbulent her thoughts are. The font needs to be bigger, there’s too much empty space.

 

They’re talking, but their words resound off of the gilded, wooden floors, informing Miranda of how it’s just the two of them in the townhouse tonight. She wishes that Cassidy and Caroline were home, to break the tension between them. She and Andrea don’t know how to talk to each other, not anymore.

 

“Miranda. Please look at me.” Andrea’s voice is pleading, and Miranda is reminded of all the times she’s begged for Samuel, Greg, and Stephen to look at her, to listen to her, to forgive her. She knows that if she meets Andrea’s eyes, she’s done for. Miranda looks up anyways.

 

Andrea’s rosy lips are taut like drawn string, her amber eyes wide with the slight sheen of tears. Miranda feels as though her heart is being chipped away at, and swallows. Everything about Andrea is so soft and sincere, and now for some inexplicable reason, she’s being smacked in the face with a sudden, stupid tsunami of guilt. Miranda’s so vulnerable, helpless to the effect her wife has on her. She should forgive her, as well as apologize.

 

Miranda can no longer condone this, that much is apparent. The only two words that she says are a vitriolic, “That’s all.” As soon as they leave her lips, the blood in her ears roars to an unbearable cacophony, and she wishes she could take it back.

 

They hang in the air and leave traces of unspoken, intangible icicles on the walls of the bedroom they share, and the beginnings of a wall erupt at their feet. The damage has already been done. It’s too late.


End file.
